(_Miss Armstrong wills to drift_.)

... Come to Sorrento....



NO. XII. THE ILLUSION.

(_Eastlake resumes some weeks later. He has put into Bar Harbor on a
yachting trip. He sits writing late at night by the light of the binnacle
lamp_.)

Sweet lady, a few hours ago we slipped in here past the dark shore of your
village, in almost dead calm, just parting the heavy waters with our prow.
It was the golden set of the summer afternoon: a thrush or two were
already whistling clear vespers in he woods; all else was fruitfully calm.

And then, in the stillness of the ebb, we floated together, you and I,
round that little lighthouse into the sheltering gloom of the woods. Then
we drifted beyond it all, in serene solution of this world's fret! To-
morrows you may keep for another.

This night was richly mine. You brought your simple self, undisturbed by
the people who expect of you, without your little airs of experience. I
brought incense, words, devotion, and love. And I treasure now a few pure
tones, some simple motions of your arm with the dripping paddle, a few
pure feelings written on your face. That is all, but it is much. We got
beyond necessity and the impertinent commonplace of Chicago. We had
ourselves, and that was enough.